


of love and other demons

by confidantes



Series: young blood, old guns [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Adulthood, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Trauma, avoidant attachment style: the fic, how not to deal with ur childhood trauma and fear of abandonment, i can be your angle... or yuor devil, or: take a trip thru goro's anxiety-riddled brain, that is a joke tag but i'm sticking by it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confidantes/pseuds/confidantes
Summary: Ren has never seen Roman Holiday, and Goro is intent on making the lesson, “when in Rome, do as Romans do,” stick.(Or, the sad and tired adults take a trip to Italy.)





	of love and other demons

Somewhere on the road between Fiumicino and Stazione Termini, their tiny Italian car breaks down. The broiling Mediterranean sun is doing them no favors. Goro has the hood of the car open, sweat pouring onto the maze of metal contraptions he barely knows how to make sense of.

 

“You know,” he says to Ren, who is languishing against the passenger side door, albeit very attractively, “you could help.”

 

“How could I?” The man uncrosses his arms and walks over. “I don’t know anything about cars.”

 

“Emotional support,” Goro grouses, even though Ren has a point.

 

Ren reaches up, wipes the sweat off of Goro’s forehead and tucks a loose brown strand behind his ear in one affectionate motion. “You know what Fiat stands for, right? _Fix it again, Tony._ ”

 

Goro scrunches his nose. “Now that is highly offensive to Italians everywhere.”

 

Ren throws an arm around Goro’s shoulders. “Let’s call a cab.”

 

-

 

On the way to Rome, their cab driver informs them, in mixed Italian and English, that it may have been thanks to Lady Luck that their car broke down, because _oddio, the traffic in Roma, it can drive you pazzo!_ Goro, who has a better handle on the Western languages, replies jokingly, “I’ve always thought traffic to be relaxing, to be honest — romantic, even,” to which the cabbie responds, more emphatically, _pazzo!_ Goro likes prodding the driver with increasingly alarming assertions about his travel preferences (for example, that he prefers the middle seat on the plane! A complete and total lie) while Ren shakes his head but does nothing to stop him, grinning all throughout. After it takes them an hour to fight their way through traffic, the cabbie completely vindicated, it’s already dark, and they get dumped out in front of their cheap little hotel, which looks about as sturdy as a cracker tin. Goro tips their driver with a _grazie mille_ , to which he replies, “Enjoy Roma, won’t you? Just don’t get too pazzo, eh?” And Goro insists, _si, si_ , though he doesn’t know what the driver’s standard of crazy is anymore, blown out of proportion several kilometers ago.

 

The old _donna_ at the front desk, with her pinched nose and stout face, signs them in with some curt English and large hand gestures. She looks like someone Goro could imagine to be his grandmother. Up the rickety, twining staircase they follow her, barely able to squeeze their bags in against the tight spiral, finally ejected onto the landing of the third floor. “Room 302,” she says simply, before pressing the key into Goro’s hand and disappearing back down the stairs.

 

They drag their bags through the door into the small, cramped room, home for the next week or so. Ren flops back onto the bed, which creaks prodigiously (and worryingly) under his weight. “Whew! We’re here.” Goro sits down next to him and places a hand on Ren’s knee.

 

“We are.” He’s looking around — overhead, a single, solitary bulb swings, casting its wan light on the cracked plaster walls. Other than the bed, the only other furniture in the room are a desk and chair by the window, a small wobbly dresser acting as a nightstand. A sink and toilet stand in the far corner; Goro presumes the shower is down the hall, shared between the handful of guests on the floor. In every fixture, the building’s age shows. He finds this charming. He likes it when rooms reveal their complete histories.

 

Ren’s stomach takes the opportunity to let out a fearsome growl, and they share a laugh. “Shall we feed the beast?” Goro asks. After all, the way to Ren’s heart is through his appetite.  

 

They step out into the brisk evening air, after freshening up and a change of clothes. Rome, under cover of night, feels alive. Not the way Tokyo does, buzzing with energy, but like you’ve taken in a lungful of breath and are about to exhale. He navigates them through the narrow, busy streets around the Stazione Termine, a crooked maze of stately buildings that look (and probably are) hundreds of years old, dappled with the prismatic, nineties-era loop and curl of graffiti. Names, messages, jokes, doodles, anything to proclaim that _I, too, was here once,_ and all this annotated humanity caught between the small shops shilling cheap trinkets and the greasy takeaway restaurants, run by the local Chinese and Indian immigrants. Every so often they pass some man with shifty eyes, and Goro instinctively pulls Ren a little closer. Rome is known for its pickpockets, who wander the nights in number. Then again, they’re not just some oblivious tourists; Goro doubts anyone could ever get the jump on Ren. And he’s not such an easy target himself.

 

Despite their best efforts at a city map, they get a little lost anyway, so Goro stops for directions. There’s a group of three women, middle-aged and heavily perfumed, smoking outside of a shop — a safe bet, he figures, locals that won’t be rude enough to turn him away. “Mi scusi,” he starts politely, “but could you point me in the direction of —” and hardly gets any further, because all of a sudden they surround him with a “ _Bambino!_ ” They’ve never seen such a handsome young man, they say, pinching his cheeks, and why doesn’t he bring his cute friend along to wine and dine with them tonight, they live just down the street! He laughs good-naturedly: “Donne, per favore, the directions, perhaps another time —” and he manages to wrest a hurried _two blocks and then a left_ out of them, but not before one of them coyly slides a slip of paper into his palm. Her phone number.

 

“Grazie,” he greets them, turning back to Ren with a shrug and a cheery expression. As if this were normal and he was quite used to being mobbed over his handsome looks. As it were, he was.

 

Ren wears a slightly awed look on his face. “Amazing. You can charm women anywhere. They just want to take you home and feed you and feed you and feed you.”

 

“Hm. Is that jealousy I detect?” Goro teases.

 

Ren scoffs. “As if. I hate pasta.”

 

“You do not! What would you have to eat here, then?”

 

He doesn’t like that smile growing on Ren’s face. “I have some ideas.”

 

“Hm.” He returns the cheeky grin, tilts his head in mock contemplation. “I may have to take you up on your ideas, later.”

 

They find the _trattoria_ soon enough, a noisy and busy little place tucked under an awning of warm, golden light. Seated in the corner at one of the last available tables, the proprietress quickly rattles off the short list of specials, no standard menu to be found — “Thursday gnocchi, Friday _baccala_ , Saturday tripe,” as the locals say.

 

“Well,” Goro asks, leaning his chin against the heel of his palm, “anything you’re in the mood for?”

 

Ren looks bewildered. “You’d better order for both of us.”

 

He laughs — as promised, no pasta, so artichokes _alla romana_ and _supplì_ for _antipasto,_ and then straight to _secondo_ with _baccala, coda alla vaccinara_ , and _abbacchio alla scottadito_. Some pastries to finish them off, whatever’s in season. “E Signora, il vino, per favore.”

 

The food arrives quickly, crowding the small table with eye-poppingly large dishes. The _signora_ slides in a whole decanter of the house red, wishing them a _buon appetito!_ before waltzing away to attend to the next table. Ren gapes at Goro.

 

“Did you order the whole kitchen off the menu?”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s still dessert to come,” Goro says cheerily. He pours a glass of wine and hands it across the table to Ren. “ _Salute!_ ”

 

He’d known Ren would have no problem with the sheer volume of food, because in a few minutes the artichokes are gone and he’s also polished off half the _supplì_ , and they might have to call for refill of wine soon, too. He thinks to himself, as he sips at his own glass, _I wonder what my therapist would say about this._ This idyllic picture, framed in time by memory. He’d promised Tachibana-sensei that he’d use his first vacation in — years? maybe his whole life? — to properly put aside his worries, to take in the present moment and enjoy the views before him. That, yes, things were going well with Ren, so he’d make the effort to strengthen their relationship instead of letting his heart self-detonate.

 

Of course he’d promised. But he hasn’t yet lost the habit of tabulating his pathologies, of keeping count of the bad thoughts in his funny mind to report back to her like a self-reproaching class monitor. Truly he is some kind of emotional Midas who turns joy to sorrow: _Tachibana-sensei, I am sitting across from the love of my life in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I should be totally happy, and yet something is missing, I feel a pit in my stomach…_

 

What would she tell him right now? He tries to rack his brain. _You used to come in with a list of everything you thought was wrong with you, remember?_ she said to him during their last appointment together. _You don’t do that anymore. You should be proud of your progress, you’ve come so far_.

 

Is it because he’s used to being told that he isn’t doing enough that he doesn’t fully believe her? Or because he still does just that, he just doesn’t tell her? Truth by omission, some say, is still lying. Even Ren’s hand, reaching across to touch his knee while they finish their meal with dessert and coffee, feels like a remote warmth. Before they turn in for the night, they make a quick detour to the Spanish Steps, which, Goro explains, was featured in the movie _Roman Holiday_ , and to their left they can see the Keats-Shelley House, which functions as a landmark in memoriam of the English Romantic poets…

 

Ren laughs and palms the side of his face. “Remind me when I’m packing for a trip next time _not_ to bring the talking guidebook.”

 

They go back to the hotel and slip out of their clothes, buffeted by summer humidity. And it would be so like him, wouldn’t it, to completely fuck up a good thing? That every kind embrace they share is tainted by the blood Goro painted on an interrogation room floor? That under every eyelid, like _chiaroscuro_ , lies a lurking shadow.

 

“Everything okay?” Ren asks. It snaps Goro out of his thoughts — he must’ve been distant.

 

“Sorry. Jetlag.”

 

“I can take care of that,” Ren teases. He reaches out a hand. “Come to bed.”

 

Goro tumbles in next to him.

 

-

 

In the night, he startles awake with a gasp.

 

“Shhh,” Ren breathes into his ear, barely conscious but acting on learned memory, “you’re okay, we’re okay.” From behind, Ren’s arms wrap tighter around him. A hand slips under Goro’s shirt and finds its way up to his chest, where Ren rubs the heel of his palm in slow, concentric circles, as if the motion might settle Goro’s skittering heartbeat back to rest.

 

Ren is back to snoring in minutes, but Goro is wide awake for the rest of the night. He knows he doesn’t deserve this. This beautiful man, this loving relationship. It’s a sham.

 

He wonders how Ren can stand it.

 

-

 

Goro’s out of bed at the crack of dawn, of course. Ren is such a deep sleeper that he doesn’t even wake up with Goro bustling around the room, not even when he flings the curtains open to let in the bright morning light.

 

“Up and at ‘em, Ren,” he says, pulling the covers completely back from Ren’s dozing body. “We’ve got an early start today.”

 

“ _Ugh,_ ” Ren groans, rolling around in blind search of the covers, “you have _way_ too much energy before 9 AM.” He pauses, though, when through the slit of one bleary eye, he catches a glimpse of Goro.

 

“Your hair.” He thinks he can hear Ren swallow thickly. “You wore it up.”

 

“Observant of you, yes.” He’s still busying around, reorganizing some items here and there in their suitcases. “It’s going to be warm out, and I didn’t want my hair sticking to the back of my neck.”

 

“And you’re...dressed up.” He must be referring to Goro’s collared shirt and slim-fitted slacks.

 

“When in Rome, Ren-kun.” Arms akimbo, he turns to Ren and nods at the neat pile of clothes stacked at the end of the bed. “Come on, you should get dressed yourself.”

 

“You picked out my clothes for me?” He snorts. “What are you, my mother?”

 

Goro frowns, almost a pout. “You are _not_ wearing your usual T-shirt and jeans today. I refuse.”  

 

“ _Alright,_ ” Ren grunts, swinging his legs off the bed. “I’m too sleepy to argue with you.”

 

“That’s exactly what I’d hoped for.”

 

“You’re an evil mastermind.” Ren pulls the dark navy polo over his head, his crown of messy black bed-curls popping out cleanly through the neck-hole. “How do I look?”

 

“Effervescent, dear,” Goro responds smoothly. “Now put your pants on.”

 

Eventually, he has Ren dressed and out the door in a timely manner, and together they take in the fresh Roman morning air for the first time. Goro had planned their itinerary, since he’d been to Rome once before, though he hadn’t divulged why. First on their list, he announces with a smile, is a coffee, of course, the _italiano_ way, which comes in the form of a demitasse of espresso slid across the counter, to be gunned down the throat like a shot. Crossing the busy streets, cars honking in a cacophonous anger, they hop into _il bar,_ a nearby coffee shop that Goro insists is highly regarded by the locals. Inside, the crowd pushes past each other on black and white tiles, and in typical Italian fashion, the volume of everyone’s voices at mid-level raucous. The bar itself stands front and center, a long, wooden block with marble countertops, behind which a veritable army of baristas worked industriously to caffeinate the sleepy residents of Rome.

 

“Wow,” Ren says quietly, genuinely impressed. “This is nothing like Leblanc.”

 

Goro throws back a smile, and leading the way to the bar, leans his right elbow on the lip of the counter. “Due caffè, per favore,” he says. The barista nods vaguely, though something behind Goro catches his attention, earning a focused gaze.

 

“È carino,” the Italian comments, nodding towards Ren.  

 

Goro glances back at Ren, before saying firmly, “È il mio.”

 

Ren frowns. “What are you saying about me?”

 

Goro smiles. “Oh nothing, just discussing the weather.” The barista returns with the demitasses and pushes them towards Goro with enough intensity to make one of the cups slosh its contents over the sides and onto the saucer. Of course. He hands the unspilled espresso to Ren cheerily. “Drink up!”

 

Ren takes his cup, expression still half-confused, and as he gulps down his drink, Goro takes a moment to appraise his work. He’d dressed Ren so well this morning that it was starting to attract unwanted attention. A mental note to himself: he’d have to let Ren wear his usual clothes tomorrow.

 

After coffee, they catch the bus out of Termini and arrive at _Sant'Agnese fuori le mura_ right on time for the tour of the catacombs. The inside of the church yawns before them, an ornate array of stone arches and beautiful painted detailing. Kitagawa would have appreciated this, Goro catches himself thinking. An old name he thought he’d long forgotten, but one of a church’s main purposes is to make people remember, Margaret Visser wrote. Is the other purpose, then, guilt?

 

“Stay close together,” their tour guide instructs in Italian to the small group gathered before her. “We won’t be collecting you should you find yourself lost!” A ripple of quiet and nervous laughter strikes the group, save for Ren, who gives Goro a blank stare.

 

“I’m starting to think we shouldn’t have gone on the Italian tour just because it was the cheapest,” Ren murmurs.

 

“Relax,” Goro says with a smile. “I know everything there is to know about the catacombs, anyway.” He did spent one particular summer completely enthralled by _The Geometry of Love_ , after all _._

 

“Of course you do,” groans Ren, though with good humor.

 

“This minor basilica of St. Agnes was built in the seventh century by Pope Honorius the First…” the tour guide continues in Italian, as they begin to follow her through the church. Goro only understands about half about what she’s saying — she’s speaking too fast, and he’s conversational at best. So he and Ren linger a few steps behind everyone else, for Goro to give his own tour without disturbance.

 

“A larger basilica was built nearby earlier in the fourth century, though it’s now in ruins,” Goro explains, keeping his voice low and close to Ren’s ear. “The church is named after St. Agnes, who was venerated as a saint after, at age twelve, she refused to marry the son of the town’s prefect and was killed for it.”  

 

“That’s...dark,” Ren says with a grimace.

 

He decides to leave out the worst parts of the story. “Yes, a child sacrificed on the altar of a god.” He turns to Ren. “Does that remind you of anyone?”

 

He must’ve gone too far, because Ren stalls him with a firm hand to the chest, holding them back. The group starts to round the corner, disappearing out of sight, and Goro is starting to fear that they might actually get left behind when Ren grabs his hand, threads their fingers together. “I think it’s much too early for gallows humor,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on Goro’s neck. He doesn’t let go of Goro’s hand.

 

The descent into the catacombs beneath the church is quick, a stark change from sunlight to shadow. The tall, narrow hallways, flanked with ancient graves, lit only by dim overhead bulbs, feels suffocating. The group starts to thin into a single file, Ren in front of him pulling on his hand. Goro turns his head briefly; behind him, the darkness stretches. It reminds him of the dream where it swallows him whole, flooding every pore. Turned frontward again, the tourists walk through a maze of light, everyone’s hair slightly haloed. They look, Goro imagines wildly, like angels themselves. How could they know? — what it feels like to wrestle the monsters under your skin that want to kill you, control you. What it feels like to be plunged in the dark, in constant struggle to reach the light.

 

It’s the dream of Ren’s dead body that’s the worst. Knowing, too, that he had a hand in it. Knowing, too, that Ren is gone for good this time. _That’s what you get_ , the shadows seethe, _you devil-boy, you reap what you sow._

 

The group reaches a small alcove. Above them, the stone rises in a jagged dome, and a golden cross hung on the wall marks the tomb below it. Their guide is explaining in rapid Italian that St. Agnes’ skull is kept elsewhere, but here, in subterranean soil, _sotto la terra,_ lies her body. Here, below her altar, is where the bones of St. Agnes are kept, to whom the pious make their pilgrimages and pray for their own purification.

 

“Is this it?” Ren whispers next to him.

 

“Yes.” He doesn’t know what anyone around him is saying; their voices merge into a low, buzzing thrum. He doesn’t even feel the veneration a holy pilgrim might. What grips his body is low-level panic, the starting gun for fear. “This is it.”

 

-

 

It’s still early when they get out of the tour, so they head over to the Borghetto Flaminio Market at the Piazza del Popolo. The flea market is in full swing when they arrive, stalls overflowing with vintage and secondhand goods.

 

Hand in hand, they stride down through the avenues of early morning shopping crowds. They attract several curious looks here and there, but otherwise, the populace seems willing to leave them be. Italy isn’t really known to be a safe haven for gay men, but it’s at least better than Japan, where such topics amongst the genteel are strictly verboten. They’ve had to be more careful, in Tokyo. Careful not to let _kareshi_ slip, careful not to stand too close, careful not to let down their guard until they pass through the bars at Ni-chōme. This, after everything, is a welcome change. Goro squeezes Ren’s grip. “See anything you like?”

 

“Other than you?” Ren rejoinders smoothly. “Hm, let’s see…”

 

They pause every so often to pick through a leather jacket here, a linen shirt there. Not seriously considering any purchase (or, at least Goro tries to appear not to be), but instead, dreaming of possible futures. Who they might be if this leather jacket or that linen shirt entered their lives. A stall of entirely porcelain figures, painted in delicate vibrancy, induces playful ribbing in the both of them. A rooster more noble-looking than a crow, or a ballerina more cat-like than a thief. “This one looks like you,” Ren says, stopping to point out a particularly rosy-cheeked baker boy.

 

“Har, har,” Goro replies dryly, before a colorful array catches his eye, just beyond Ren’s left — a rack of Hermès scarves.

 

Ren would never let him live it down if he knew of Goro’s suppressed but passionate desire for one of those gaudy French scarves, nor would he allow even a secondhand one be considered in their budget. He’s considering whether he should let Ren in on the secret, about to give the man future ammunition in any future argument, when he turns around to tell him, and Ren is gone.

 

A new wave of people, complete strangers, pushes past him.

 

“Ren?” He tries to prevent his voice from sounding like that of a small, lost child, but only succeeds in making it hoarse, hollow. “Re—?”

 

Suddenly short of breath ( _oh no no no no_ ) the name catches in his throat ( _no no no not this_ ) now his hands are shaking, now the pounding in his heart invades his head. Only static on the brain, like the white noise channel on television. No words in range. Just terror. Pure terror.

 

“—ro?” There’s a warm touch on his back, “Goro? Goro?” His eyes remind him of sight, and he looks up to find the anxious concern stretched over Ren’s face. “Goro, I’m so sorry, I thought you were right behind me…”

 

Without another word, he pulls Goro into a hug. The heat of Ren’s body seems to work like a sedative. His breathing starts to slow. “It’s okay.” Anger floods him — stupid of him to overreact to such a simple thing. Now he’s made Ren worry.  

 

Ren just kisses him on the cheek. “Do you want to head home now? It’s getting hot, anyway.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

-

 

After they get back to the hotel, Ren collapses onto the bed and falls asleep immediately, likely exhausted from a heady mixture of jetlag and walking for so long. Goro chuckles, taking Ren’s shoes off and pulling the covers over him, before settling in at the desk and opening up his laptop to work on his manuscript.

 

The marketplace must’ve rattled him something strong; for the first time in his life, he seems to have choice little to say. He gazes out the window, the bold, afternoon sun gleaming white on the city rooftops, bleaching brick until it resembles bone. The same sun accompanied him eight, almost nine years ago as he sat on the Spanish Steps, diminished to a remote pin on a map of crowded tourist bodies, the same bone-white glisten dancing along the flowing waters of the Fontana della Barcaccia. Back when he’d been freshly ejected from the Metaverse, back when he’d still felt like a wounded animal craving a metal edge, he’d caught a late-night viewing of _Roman Holiday_ at a small, Yokohama repertory theater, and felt for the first time in his life that it might possible to _live_. Not just to survive — to live. He dyed his hair and cut it short. He blackmailed any contacts he still had left for a new identity and a passport, emptied out his old bank account, and booked the first flight he could to Rome.

 

It wasn’t like him to indulge spontaneity, but that was the idea — that in a life defined by meticulous planning, he’d finally given up on plans. He spent the next several weeks milling aimlessly around Rome, her streets, her sights, wanting nothing but solitude. He was a nobody here; he loved it. Left alone by a tongue he couldn’t speak. He spent his nights watching pay-per-view in hotels, sleeping four or six hours a night, finding his only solace in movies. In other people’s lives. In the mornings he’d go out and try his hand again at anonymity. And for the first time in his life, strangers were simply kind to him, no strings attached. No one knew who he was, what he’d done in the past. No one even cared. He could’ve stayed there forever.

 

He had to go back to Japan eventually because he ran out of money, of course, but for a time, he had felt it — a loosening of the soul. So he had always associated Rome with the feeling with freedom. But Rome, the caldera of Catholicism, where demons be purged and the sin of man sanctified, had also, in time, come to mean guilt.

 

He turns back to his waiting laptop screen, glaring at him an ugly blue. Cursor blinking absence. His new work is about a dirty cop who gets what’s coming to him. Hardly veiled. _I’ve been thinking of this book as my exculpation,_ he wants to say, but even in his head it sounds silly. He thinks, really, of death and making it stick this time. Metaphorically, but he thinks of the phrase _le petit mort_ and how the French were right to say that death is found in all possible things.

 

Or maybe he just needs the nearest confessional, stat; the demons are coming back home to roost.

 

 _Tachibana-sensei, I am going quite mad again._ But she wouldn’t like to hear that. He tries again. _Tachibana-sensei, the Roman weather is doing wonders for my health…_ He leans back in his chair, watches a moth divebomb the ceiling bulb, and again, again, again. The hiss of the filament grows louder.

 

There’s something about going to another country for vacation that makes you lose time. Especially Rome in July, when it’s too hot to do anything, so they sleep during the afternoons, clocks going lazy, emerge again bright-eyed in the night like cicadas from their decades-long slumber. They go dancing on the docks of the Tiber or anywhere else that will take them, to the tinny tunes of a lame strings quartet, whose players get angry if you don’t tip them at the end of the night. No one pays them any mind. They are, briefly, free to do what they please.

 

Free, but the tiger eyes stay trained on Goro’s back, stalking him wherever he goes.

 

-

 

He’d fallen asleep editing again, so Ren nudges him awake in the chair. “Morning, princess,” he greets softly. Goro blinks awake. There’s two paper cups on the table next to his laptop.

 

“You got coffee?” he mumbles, still thick with sleep.

 

“Mm.” Ren hands him a cup, take the second for himself. “I just copied how you did it. But the barista kept insisting on only giving me one coffee, at first.”

 

“Sneaky bastard,” Goro says, hiding his yawn with his hand, before reaching forward to cup the side of Ren’s face. “I’m sorry I keep doing this. Tonight I am in the bed with you, I promise.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Ren turns his head to kiss his palm. “Besides, I know your compulsion to work, even though you promised your therapist you’d be taking time off.”

 

Goro laughs mid-sip. “You wouldn’t dare tell her.”

 

“I dunno,” Ren says with a smirk, “it’s tempting.” He nods at the laptop. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

 

“If you want,” though he doesn’t look at Ren, though he knows what Ren’s going to say to him afterwards. It’s useless trying to hide anything from him, anyway. They know everything about each other. Why should this be any different? “I’m going to take a shower while you read.”

 

“Okay,” Ren says absently, already gathering the laptop onto his lap and settling on the edge of the bed. Before he steps out of the room, Goro lingers to save the image in his mind: the warm, mid-morning sunlight thrown through the curtains, playing with the curl of Ren’s hair.

 

Sure enough, when he’s returned from the shower, skin damp and steamy, Ren’s wearing a certain type of look on his face.

 

“Goro?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I think we should talk about this.”

 

“About what?” Goro opens a drawer and roots around for a fresh pair of underwear.

 

“Your book.”

 

“My book?” he repeats. Finding one, he slips his legs in.  

 

“Yes. What you wrote. We should talk about it.”

 

“How ambitious of you, Ren. Did you want to exchange writing tips?” He’s laughing — he really does find this funny, in a way.

 

Ren sighs bodily, rubbing both eyes closed. “Look, I know you clearly don’t want to. But when you’re ready...I’m here for you.”

 

Goro nods. He walks over, combs his fingers through the dark tangle of Ren’s hair. Where the sun had touched it still radiated warmth. He leans over and kisses that strong, fortuitous brow. “Let’s just enjoy the day.”

 

-

 

Even though he said it, he can’t get out of his own head. Ren’s holding his hand, stroking his thumb over Goro’s in what he seems to think is a comforting manner, but all Goro wants to do is break loose and run away. Hide. Never come back.

 

What on earth is wrong with him? (Too many things to count.) They should be enjoying themselves, they should be happy, there should be no tension left to traverse between them. How do people do it? He glances at other passersby on the street — mothers and daughters carrying voluminous shopping bags, couples laughing and kissing, everyone enjoying summer as it is. Everyone so carefree.

 

He marvels at others, how they can walk around just as themselves. How light it must feel. For twenty-seven years, he’s carried around the dead weight of two other people on his shoulders, sins he’s inherited and sins he’s picked up along the way. _Heavy,_ as a word, doesn’t even begin to describe it.

 

How does _Ren_ do it? How does Ren carry around the world on his shoulders like it’s nothing? Or maybe it’s simpler than that — all his life, Goro’s walked around making people believe that he has nothing to hide. Ren really does have choice little to hide, wearing so much of his thoughts and feelings on the surface of his skin, yet everyone around him gets pulled in, wants to get to know him a little better, to plumb his deepest depths. His natural aura of mystery would drive any sane man or woman to their limit.

 

Goro’s reading into it too much; it’s probably a side effect of Ren’s quiet demeanor. It’s what made him such a great leader — he never spoke unless he needed to, and always did so until after hearing everyone else’s opinion. A true war general.

 

“Goro,” Ren says, next to him. “You’re spacing out.”

 

Of course, he’s never too shy to be blunt around Goro.

 

“Sorry,” he says. He puts on his best smile. “Rome can be distracting. There’s so much to look at.”

 

And he doesn’t mind throwing an exaggerated wink Ren’s way.

 

Ren can barely contain his laughter: _you dork._ “Smooth. Normally that would make my knees weak, but now I’m just frustrated we came all the way to Italy to flirt when we could just do that at home for free.”

 

True to form, Ren has been budgeting and counting every Euro they’ve spent since the moment they landed. He’s probably calculating in his head right now just how many yen they’re wasting simply because Goro isn’t paying attention.

 

He cops Ren’s move and rolls his eyes. “My apologies, most gracious taskmaster,” he manages to say without sounding sorry at all. “Come with me.” He tugs Ren by the sleeve.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

He shoots back a mischievous smile. “What have I been saying, dear? When in Rome, do as Romans do.”

 

-

 

He doubts Ren knows what he’s doing. He doubts Ren has ever seen _Roman Holiday_ — as much as he loves the man, Ren can be a bit of a cultural philistine. Their first stop sees them through the packed throngs around the Fontana di Trevi, an impressive marble Oceanus and his Tritons taming the flow of water atop a veritable pool. Children, couples, tourists of all kinds squeezed in against the basin, trying to flip in a coin with their backs to the fountain, in hopes of floating a dream towards truth.

 

Digging through his wallet, Goro finally retrieves a ¥1 coin from its recesses and hands it to Ren, who raises an eyebrow.

 

“Oh, I get it. This is the iconic landmark from _The Lizzie McGuire Movie._ ”

 

Goro smiles patiently. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

 

Ren shrugs. “I’m going to pretend you’re not being a frustratingly elusive asshole, then.”

 

“Don’t you like surprises?” He tugs at Ren’s elbow. “Come on. Make a wish.”

 

Ren turns the coin once over in his hand. “Shouldn’t you make one too?”

 

“Me?” Goro laughs. “I already have everything I’d hoped for.”

 

“Well, same here.” With debonair grace, Ren wraps an arm around Goro and pulls him in for a quick peck on the lips. “But I guess one yen seems like a fair price for the thoughts inside your head.” Turning, he throws the coin over his shoulder with easy confidence. It flies into the water in a perfect arc, in a way that makes it look, like everything Ren does, effortless. He turns to Goro. “Well? Did I win?”

 

“Hm.” Is it this easy? It shouldn't be this easy. “Not yet.”

 

What are the thoughts inside his head? That of course the first movie Goro fell in love with was _Roman Holiday._ Of double identity, on the tug-and-pull between duty and desire, Goro knew all too well. They thread themselves around the columns of the Pantheon, dipping inside to look upon that famed dome, that eye of God that let in a single beam of light. Does God turn a blind eye to His fallen flock? Goro read _Paradise Lost,_ once, just to see, and wasn’t sure how to square it with his own experience of divinity. And another fountain in the Piazza della Rotonda just outside of the Pantheon, except this one with the tall obelisk, and he thinks of the one from _2001: A Space Odyssey,_ pushing forward relentlessly, for time immemorial.

 

Will he ever know how to make peace with the maelstrom inside? They’ve made the trek to Piazza Venezia and it’s already mid-afternoon, searing hot, and Ren is asking, “Should we go home already?” and he can feel Ren’s patience wearing thin, for having dragged him across Rome without rhyme or reason, but he insists, “Just one more, please, just one more,” and this one, though he doesn’t say it, is the important one. This one to trawl his conscience clean and put the sins to bed, but even so, do they ever stay asleep.

 

As they duck into the small alcove sketched into the side of a church, Goro explains that the Bocca della Verità, a large round of marble carved like an old man’s face, will test your honesty. “The mouth,” Goro says, demonstrating, “will bite off your hand if you lie, according to legend.” Are they half-expecting it to happen? Goro smiles gamely. “Try me.”

 

Ren chews on his lip, in consideration for a long moment, before speaking. “Do you still feel guilty about the interrogation room?”

 

Goro retracts his hand as if it’d been burned. “You don’t play fair.”

 

“Neither do you, Goro. I can’t play the game if I don’t even know the rules.” Stepping inward, Ren places his own hand within the stone mouth. “Here, I’ll go. I don’t think you should have written about one of the more painful moments of my life without asking me.”

 

He shouldn’t laugh, but he does. And bitterly. “I thought you’d have gotten over that a long time ago.”

 

Ren creases his brows together. “Should I have?”

 

Goro turns, immediately, on his heel. His heartbeat is starting to get panicky. The palms of his hands feel clammy, and he has to count his breaths. “We’re not talking about this.”

 

“Really? The way you’ve been acting, I think we should.”

 

“What are you doing, Ren?” His voice is louder than he’d intended. “We’re supposed to be taking leisure time. I did not come all this way to be therapied into obsolescence.” And he’s — shaking.

 

Ren, for his worth, looks instantly regretful at this turn of events. “I-I’m sorry, Goro,” he says, reaching his hand out, possibly to comfort him, to caress him, but Goro never finds out what, because he pushes it away.

 

“We’re not talking about this,” he repeats, and leaves it at that.

 

-

 

How can you miss someone who hasn’t left you? Or maybe it’s that Goro thinks Ren _should_ that’s the problem. But he can’t just abandon Ren in Rome, not when the man barely knows two words in Italian, and anyway — it would be shitty of him. It would reconfirm everything he thought about himself. After a terse break for _panini,_ eaten on the steps of the Basilica dei Santi Silvestro and watching the sun turn to cosmic dust over tiled roofs, Goro walks, Ren follows, to the Colosseum end of Via di San Giovanni in Laterano. There, an old bar Goro remembers from last time he was in Rome, when he was too young for bars, but a fake passport could get him in anywhere and he wanted to forget himself. (Funny how some things don’t change.)

 

Inside, a haze of men’s bodies pulse to some Eurobeat track, skin set blue and lavender from the choice of overhead lighting. Nothing much has changed, except a new rotation of bartenders and more trendy music. Ironic that gay clubs thrive near the Colosseum, where the citizens used to gather to watch sweaty, muscled men do battle with one another.

 

“I’ll get drinks,” Goro tells Ren, even though Goro doesn’t drink much and neither are in the mood for some wild night out, anyway. He isn’t sure why he brought them here — any other night of the week, they would’ve had fun. Tonight, it felt tragic, pathetic.

 

Maybe it was just to get away, disappear in the crowd.

 

He does have a drink, or even more than one drink, and then he doesn’t remember where he left Ren, or if Ren left him and wandered away, and then he gets caught up, absurdly enough, in a debate at the bar with an Englishman about Kantian ethics. Then it gets fuzzy, then it’s confusing because he’s bowed over the toilet, and the Englishman is holding his hair back, and he doesn’t know how he got here. The Englishman is rubbing circles into his back, and Goro feels disgusted, because Ren is the only one who knows how to knead the tension from his body, how to soothe the flutter within, and how could he let this stranger touch him in this way?

 

In one smooth motion, more coordinated than he had any right to be capable of, he brushes the man’s hand away and stands up. “Please don’t touch me.” He takes a step forward, and finds that he doesn’t wobble much. Maybe he’s sobering up. “I need water,” he announces vaguely, leaving the Englishman behind.

 

It’s then, exiting the bathroom and navigating his way back through the dancefloor, that he sees it — Ren, trapped in a maze of couples, not dancing with anyone, not dancing in particular, but moving in time to the beat of the music, graceful. Light hitting that curl of hair in the way that Goro loves. Everything clicks into place. Everything starts to make sense.

 

Pushing aside a group of dancers, he begins to make his way forward, but there are too many bodies in the way, too far away. As he struggles through, he watches two burlier Italian men approach Ren, and Ren standing his ground but arms protectively raised, and by the time he gets to them, the tail end of their conversation reaches him — _bellissimo, fa il prezioso._

 

Goro reacts before he can think — surprising Ren, who blurts out a shocked, “Hey!” — slides in front of Ren, his body as a shield, leveling the kind of glare that could crumble mountains.

 

“Tu vai,” he growls at the men, but he’s so angry he can’t remember how to conjugate in Italian. He switches to English. “Leave him alone. This is your last warning.”

 

There’s a back-and-forth, some heated gestures and creatively imaginative Italian cuss words, but eventually the two men back off. Before they leave, they glance back, an acid intent for Goro.

 

“Straniero,” they spit in his face. He grins back; he’s been called far worse.

 

Ren’s eyes are wide like saucers and he starts, “ _Goro_ —” but Goro does not want to look at him, Goro takes the opportunity to finally turn tail and _run._ Through the bodies, under that hazy neon light, trying to find the exit, until finally ejected into that cool night air.

 

He takes in several breaths before he hears a thud of footsteps from behind him, and glances back. Of course. Ren had jogged out after him, and it’s not hard to spot his caramel shade of hair, after all. Goro presses forward, keeps pace so that there is always a distance between them, enough distance to make him feel safe from scrutiny.

 

“Goro. Will you talk to me?”

 

 _Depends,_ he thinks petulantly. They end up, not by accident, but through Goro’s lead, onto an old footbridge, vacant at this hour. Goro remembers it well. He had spent many an afternoon here once, silently watching those who passed him by. Children, running ahead of their parents pushing strollers. Tourists taking pictures. Happy couples.

 

“This bridge is architecturally unique because of the trademark empty oculus at its midway point, designed to alleviate river pressure on the bridge in the event of a flood.” Goro pauses to run his hand against the aged stone, in what feels like pride. “The Ponte Sisto, named after Pope Sixtus IV. My favorite in all of Rome.”

 

“Do you love me?”

 

Goro stops. “Do I what?”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Ren crossing his arms. “Love me. You know, like boyfriends are supposed to.”

 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are the biggest idiot in the world, Amamiya.”

 

“Look, I’m just testing you. You’re the one being weird and distant.”

 

He looks out past the balustrade, far, far into the River Tiber. Below, the waters are black, thick and soupy like pitch. They churn. _Because, I can’t trust myself with a good thing._

 

“Turn around, Ren.”

 

“What?”

 

Softer: “Turn around.”

 

Ren obliges — and here, Goro grabs him from behind, pushes them forward until they’re up against the stone of the handrail, nowhere to move. One hand slides around the base of Ren’s throat, a loose hold, and he can feel the pulse skip against his skin.

 

How do you punish a man for loving someone? Worse — for loving someone who shouldn’t be loved? Ren is a stubborn man. He reminds Goro of the prickly chestnut pods that inevitably get stuck to your pant hems during a quiet walk in the fall, and no matter how hard you try to pry them off, they always come back in persistent and greater numbers. “ _You_.” Goro’s voice is a low hiss. “How can you live with yourself when you fall for tricks like this.”

 

His right arm holding Ren firm, the hand on his neck traveling further south. “You stupid boy. You idiot fool.” Travels south until it finds the hem of Ren’s shirt and tugs it upward. “You thought you could trust me. You’ve _always_ fucking trusted me. Even when I tried, hard, to make you disappear.” His teeth try out the soft of Ren’s neck; under Ren’s shirt, his hand crawls upward, taking in hungry touch as it goes. A perverse idea — he begins to draw tight circles around Ren’s nipples with the tips of his fingers, tug and twist at the delicate flesh, while teeth continues to mark territory. He feels Ren’s breath catch against him.

 

“I should punish you, Ren, I should let you have it. I should wreck you from the inside out until you feel like dying.” His teeth close around the shell of Ren’s ear, eliciting a short yelp of pain. “You’re so fucking easy, Ren, that it disgusts me.”

 

He almost can’t stop. It’s addictive, saying these hurtful things. Anger borne of confusion. Of — the why’s around Ren. The inexplicability of his existence. He bites down, finally, to stop himself. To stop that self-destructive Loki that had always burrowed home inside of him. To stop, finally, the demons that want him dead, to stop the tongue that wants only silence.

 

Then, simply, he laughs: “Just kidding.”

 

“Stop fucking around.” But Ren doesn’t sound angry; instead, frustrated. It isn’t until Goro’s fingers brush against the solid tips of Ren’s nipples that he understands why. He glances downward — sure enough, there’s the slightest hint of a bulge where Ren’s pants meet his crotch.  

 

“I don’t believe it. Did you actually get hard from all that?”

 

“Don’t tease me,” Ren warns.

 

“Teasing you is my part-time job.” Goro grins, even though Ren can’t see it. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes — frankly, Ren, you’re the only person I’ve ever loved. I can’t remember my mother and I’ve never even loved myself.” His heart feels like it might break in half. “What else do you want?”

 

“I want _you_ ,” he growls, voice strained.

 

“Oh?” Goro kisses the juncture between jaw and neck. “We’re in public, dear. We’d be arrested.”

 

“As if that’s ever stopped me before.”

 

Goro laughs into Ren’s hair, taking in the scent of shampoo. “We’re going to have to talk about your crime kink, Ren.”

 

“And what about yours?”

 

“What about mine?”

 

Ren leaves the question unanswered, but Goro is putting the words into his mouth: _why’d you kill the person you loved? Why’d you take such joy in putting a bullet through my head?_

 

Because, (what a sad, pathetic man he is) I was afraid.

 

“What if I let you go right now and made you fall?” His tongue traces the outside edge of Ren’s ear, and Ren shivers in his arms. “What if I kill you, for real this time?”

 

He’s only half-joking. He knows how easy it is to take a life, after all. Just one wrong move. Just one wrong decision is all it takes.

 

Ren twists around in his arms, until they’re face-to-face, sending his gaze hard but alight with fire. The kind of confident, fearless look Goro remembers from all those years ago, deep in the bowels of Mementos.

 

He’ll admit: the earnestness in Ren’s eyes has always scared him. Once, he mistook that fear for hatred. Now, he understands it’s a kind of love.

 

“Even if you did, I’d find a way to come back. I always do,” Ren says firmly. He places both hands on either side of Goro’s face and brings him closer — their lips meet in a long, wanting kiss. As heated and as dangerous as anything they’ve done together. When they break apart, Ren simply leans forward and hugs him. “You’re nothing to be afraid of, Goro.”

 

He doesn’t want to tell Ren: the end of _Roman Holiday_ sees its lovers part ways. He doesn’t want to tell Ren that he is afraid of the future, which is a towering, unstable monolith that threatens to topple like the Pisa, that threatens to drown him in its sheer gravity.

 

He asks, “If I fell, would you catch me?” and Ren responds by holding him tighter: _always._

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how, but I managed to end this in the cheesiest way possible.
> 
> Now, a bona fide cavalcade of notes because I am terribly verbose! (I am literally Goro without the murder, sorry.) 
> 
> Ok — firstly, I want to say that I am overwhelmed by the response to “long goes into the night.” It truly meant a lot to see the wonderful comments that came in, since I poured my heart and soul into it (wipes away a single tear), so thank you, really. You’ve all made the long nights of writing worth it, and also immediately spurred me to do a butt-load of research on Rome and begin writing this next installment, so all of this is because of you folks. <3
> 
> Of Love and Other Demons is the name of a Márquez novel, which is a fun throwback reference to “long goes,” and also happened to be an incredibly apt title for this fic. 
> 
> Most of the Italian in this fic I tried to make understandable from context, or otherwise unnecessary to know the exact meaning of, so I’m leaving them untranslated, except for this one. The exchange in Italian between Goro and the barista went like this — Barista: “He’s cute.” Goro: “He’s mine.” 
> 
> I include a mention about needing to hide queerness in Japan — as a queer Asian-American, I find it necessary to point out that it isn’t always safe to be out in certain places or to certain people. For more info on queer culture in Japan, which is very much thriving but hidden from mainstream culture, here are [some](https://www.scmp.com/week-asia/society/article/2114697/whats-it-being-gay-student-japan) [ good](https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/the-queer-japan-project_us_56bcf9bae4b0b40245c5dcbf) [links](https://www.sbs.com.au/topics/sexuality/fast-lane/article/2016/11/16/8-things-gaycation-taught-us-about-japanese-lgbtq-culture).
> 
> I’d like it on record that the only research I did for this fic was watching [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvf5DlhvJJE) from Conan O’Brien’s trip to Italy. (I’m joking, of course, but this is pretty much why I wrote that opening scene.) 
> 
> You can tell I spent a long time in the KHR fandom because I keep coming back to Italy as a setting for disaster vacations that foster personal growth, and also because this fic makes many references to an oooooold ass KHR fic from almost 10 years ago, one of my favorites that I’ve carried around in my heart until now. (Thanks for the memories, Mai.) And if you were wondering — yes, I did name Takeshi in “long goes” after Yamamoto Takeshi, because he is best boy. And because I just like that name.
> 
> Lastly, I’ll be taking a short break from fic writing to work on some personal writing projects. If you’re interested in following that, I’ll probably be posting links to my Twitter, but if not, just hang tight for the third and last installment of this hare-brained series. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and I’ll see you on Twitter / for Part 3!


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